Funerals

By Sam A., Miami, FL

Thomas was his name Lays now, white lipped, under a wood casket made from trees that never knew their fate would be as such. Masking in and entrapping the torment of a dead man With an open ear. The song plays, his name is said, missing the silence of the h in Thomas But he is motionless and if only his hands could move He would rattle in his casket And slap the priest That dared cut his name short By one full letter.

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